


The Secret of Francis Sullivan

by newsbians



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken, Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: F/F, M/M, School Newspaper AU, so basically if the newsies were at Hampden at the same time as the greek six, you don't need prior secret history knowledge but it would help
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:48:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29719533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newsbians/pseuds/newsbians
Summary: It's 1982, and the close-knit editorial staff of the Hampden Gazette know a terrible secret.
Relationships: David Jacobs/Jack Kelly, Sarah Jacobs/Katherine Plumber Pulitzer
Kudos: 4





	The Secret of Francis Sullivan

**Author's Note:**

> so you don't need to read The Secret History before this, but it would drastically help. all of the greek six will be mentioned in this fic but from a distanced sort of way, it will really revolve around the newsies. plus, school newspaper au!

“Yes. Well. Thank you,” I politely nodded to my driver. He stared back at me with round, wide eyes, expectant of something I couldn’t quite distinguish in the moment; Years later, I know he was waiting for my tip. Hampden College was brimming with trust-fund children who tipped five dollar bills because they didn’t have the dollar-fifty in change, I had two lone pennies rolling in my pocket and an urgent need to use the restroom. The cabbie practically drove off with my last suitcase still in the trunk as I stood in front of my newest living quarters: Elkwood Hall, a leftmost dorm standing on the edge of Hampden College. 

The dorm itself was cramped, narrow hallways that brushed my broad shoulders and low ceilings that threatened my worn-down flat cap. I’m not a very tall man, mind you, in my peak I had barely scraped five foot nine. David Jacobs had made this a constant point of contention between us with his mammoth height and natural predisposition for teasing me. If I think hard enough, I can still feel the brush of his fingers running through my unruly mop of shock-straight hair, his gentle echo of “Perhaps, if I took a wet comb…” 

My reasons for being at Hampden were inconsequential at best: Little other schools had accepted me, they offered a scholarship that eased my foster mother’s worry lines, I wanted to leave New York and bask in the glorious outdoors. Beyond that, their art program was small and I didn’t learn much from it besides the minute corrections my professors would make on my already skilled work; They would marvel in my steady hand and rough palm, or the sculpting I could do with my eyes closed. In fact, this professorial admiration was how I ended up working for Kath Plumber at the  _ Hampden Gazette- _ well, I would have never called it working  _ for _ her, but she was the Editor-In-Chief, and she was the one who found Francis Abernathy’s lighter on the edge of that cliff. So yes, I do suppose now that we were working for her, and we always would be. 

I’m getting ahead of myself. 

My name is Jack Kelly. I am twenty-six years old, a sculpting apprentice under Rose Budd (yes, I’m aware) in a noisy sector of Manhattan, New York, where I enjoy playing an out-of-tune violin and living with my tabby cat, Sarah. I graduated from Hampden College almost four years ago, and I know a tremendous secret. 

One that, in due time, I’m sure I will share with you. But first, I must explain how I came upon this secret, the working staff of the  _ Hampden Gazette, _ a mysterious disappearance and consequent death, and one very fatal phone call.

\---

I’m from the New England area. Born in a small, filthy corner of a New York back alley, my mother had quickly abandoned me on the steps of a Catholic church. The nuns tossed me around a bit as I grew up, trying to teach me valuable life skills or lessons from our dearest Jesus Christ and his merry band of Saints, but nothing ever really stuck. By twelve, I was out on the street with a nickel and a phone number to ring: Miss Medda Larkin, risqué performer and  _ the _ lady of the night. So then I was raised alongside a group of women who would ride their skirts up for passing men, quite the change from the nunnery, and I learned what I know now. It might have messed with some people- certainly men like Anthony Higgins- but I think it gave me a better grasp on the world. Plus, Medda couldn’t love me more if I had come from her own womb- I’m real grateful for her, Medda Larkin. 

The one thing she couldn’t give me, however, was money. It wasn’t a big deal until it  _ was _ , if that makes any sense at all, until college loomed and I knew I needed to go if I ever wanted something greater in life. My grades were off-putting and my resume was bone-thin. Hampden sending me an acceptance letter seemed almost like an elaborate trick, but now I think I would have ended up there no matter my circumstances. Rich. Poor. Homeless. The president’s son. Hampden was a bright, burning flame, and I was a helpless moth. 

They accepted me under the circumstance that I would take a university job where I was wanted, which I, of course, accepted without complaint. Menial labor came easy to me, I’ve always been strong, and acting as a janitor or mopping floors didn’t seem like much of a chore. Sitting behind a receptionist’s desk was unwelcome, however, and entirely jarring. I’ve never been one to sit still. 

“This is where you’ll sit,” a blonde girl had gestured off-handedly at the desk. A landline was hooked to the side wall with a call log underneath, a smattering of pens lolled around, and an overturned book with the title ‘What We Talk About When We Talk About Love’ sat on the tabletop. I had interrupted Sylvia’s shift, another scholarship student, by asking after what our job  _ was _ before my shift began. “Just answer the-” The phone began to ring. She smiled with a sour, sarcastic look in her eye, and held up a pointer finger to excuse herself. “Hiya...No, it’s Sylvia...Who?...And you want him to  _ what? _ ...Alright, man... Have a good day.” I could still hear the dial tone when she called down the hall.  _ “Bunny!”  _

She scribbled something down when no one responded to her bizarre call and then looked expectantly up at me. “Got it?” Sylvia questioned. I haven’t heard from her in years, not since she graduated in ‘84, but I can still smell the bubblegum vodka that always lingered on Sylvia Ferns’ breath. 

After confirming that I understood- and I did- she snapped up her book and left without a second glance. I sat behind the desk, itching for something to happen, doodling on the edge of the call log, when Sarah Jacobs walked in. 

“Oh.” She blinked at me. “You’re not Sylvia.” 

I remember laughing, which made her momentarily scrunch her eyebrows together. I hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, barely even clocked the movement, but later on I knew this to be her way of being politely annoyed. Sarah didn’t like being laughed at. 

“No ma’am. I’m Jack. You just missed her, she left a minute ago.” 

Annoyance flashed over her face again. “Well, no matter. Do you know if Spot is in?” 

_ Spot. Bunny. Who was coming up with these names?  _

“Sorry. I can call for her if you’d like,” I made a move to stand up before she waved me away. 

“No bother. I’ll see if  _ he’s _ in his room.” Noting the subtle correction, I nodded and sat back over my sketching as her strides faded down the hall. As they left, I barely caught a glimpse of her sweeping a short, stout boy out the door- that obnoxiously blue overcoat of his had blown behind him like a comic book superhero. 

It occurred to me several minutes later that she was possibly the prettiest girl I had ever seen. When I asked about her the next day, Sylvia snorted into the pages of ‘Chronicle of A Death Foretold’. “Sarah Jacobs? That girl’s got a raging case of bitch. If you know what’s good for you, you’d stay far away, John.” 

**Author's Note:**

> if i'm world building too much, let me know. i have a feeling this one's gonna be a long ride, pals  
> leave a comment, poem, or song  
> follow me on tumblr @deafwestnewsies


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